


Common Sense

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Boys Who Need to Just Make Up Already, Historical, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: January 1776. After the publishing of Thomas Paine’s Common Sense, the American Revolution begins to look less like a civil war, as independence becomes part of the agenda. England is not pleased, especially once he hears Alfred Kirkland’s new name.





	Common Sense

Alfred Kirkland. That was the name he’d used. It wasn’t insulting enough that England had showed up during his meeting, demanding attention like it was _owed_ to him; he couldn’t even be bothered to refer to America by his proper human name.

America didn’t seek him out. He stayed in his tent, chatting with fellow colonists, until one man pushed through the flaps with urgency. “Someone is here to see you, sir.”

“Did he use my _name_ this time?” America sipped his coffee. It scalded his tongue, and he welcomed the burn. He decided not to wait for an answer, stood, and nodded to two men who rose to follow. “I’ll take care of this.”

His first sight of England turned his blood to fire. The man’s hair was too tame, his uniform too well-pressed for someone fighting a war. Then again, England hardly saw this as a war at all, did he? America’s only satisfaction came from knowing England hadn’t slept lately; the bags beneath his eyes were evidence. They were almost as prominent as his brows.

Green eyes flicked over at America’s approach. England kept the rest of his face impassive, turning to him with a tilt of the head. “Not a Kirkland anymore. Really.”

“It’s Jones now.” America pointed to the nameplate at his breast. “What do you want.”

It wasn’t a question, and they both knew it. Tension stretched between them. The only sound was England’s boots grinding against gravel as he pivoted his body to face him fully. The men at America’s sides shifted away, only slightly. The evening air turned thick.

England’s gaze flicked from one of America’s men, to the other, before returning to America himself. “What, do you think I’ll deck you one good? Need backup? Ha.” He stepped closer, and every muscle in America’s body turned to knots. “Ridiculous, Alfred _Jones_.”

America set his jaw, hard. England had a way of saying things—His surname, for instance—that made it sound like he was talking about cold sores or lice. America gestured to dismiss his companions. They appeared awkward as they moved away. Then, America closed the gap between them both.

“Soon, it’ll be Alfred _F._ Jones.” He raised his chin, glaring down his nose at the man who taught him that look in the first place. “Because I’ll be Free. From _you_.”

England smiled. The bastard had the audacity to _smile_ , like America was joking with him. He forced it away, but the corners of his mouth still twitched, and the smile burst free again when he laughed. Then, he nodded, cleared his throat, and drew himself upright again.

“Oh right, right, right.” Amusement played bright in England’s eyes. America’s fingers twitched. He could gouge them right out of his head. “A gentleman’s name. Quaint.”

America snorted at the display. “Did you come here to surrender and grant me my independence, or are you inviting me to deck _you_ one good?”

“Oh, Alfred.” England tilted his head. A humorless smile tightened the corners of his eyes. “I came for a drink.” His expression fell when he moved to shove past.

America caught his shoulder. “You can get a drink.” He allowed. “Back across the sea. Where you belong.” He watched England’s head turn, staring contemptuously at the wrinkles America pressed into the shoulder of his jacket. America released him with a shove. “Unless you’re admitting American booze tastes better?”

England swiveled slowly around. He smoothed out the fabric with a deliberate sweep of the hand. “Where do you think you get that taste?”

America snarled. “Nothing here—”

“Your drink is British.”

“It’s not—”

“Your food is British.”

America’s voice rose. “Would you shut—”

“Everyone here…”

“ _No one_ on my soil—”

“Is British.” England finished with a thin smile.

America swallowed a hot lump of rage. “What about me? I’m British too?”

“Yes. British territory.”

He resisted the urge to laugh. “So, this is a civil war. Is that what you think? This is a civil war, all your people fighting against themselves?”

“Mmm, not a war.” England leveled him with a cool look. “No.”

“Then what the hell do you think this—”

“A tantrum.” England stepped forward. Even though he was shorter, he looked down his nose at America now. “Thrown by a disobedient colony.”

America’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you think will come of this?” He waved a hand at all the tents, the colonial buildings, the _Americans_ around them. “All of this?”

England arched a brow. “A scolding.”

America stared, incredulous. A sharp laugh broke from his lips. Then, his expression withered. His voice dropped to a snarl. “Jump back on your ship and take a few redcoats with you.” His eyes flicked between England’s own. “Don’t come back either. I might not be feeling like such a ‘gentleman’ next time.”

A moment slipped past. England dampened his lips. He spoke calmly. “A drink, Alfred. I’ll be having a drink.”

“ _What_ did I say?” America’s composure shattered. He stepped close again, too close, and _shoved._ “You don’t own me anymore.” He shoved again. “You don’t own this place.” Another shove. “You can’t tell me what you’re doing on _my_ land.” He drove England back against the nearest building, clutching him with both hands. “Leave! Why can’t you just leave me alone? Get out! Go! No one wants you here!”

England’s mouth opened, his brows raised with surprise. He glanced to America’s grip on his collar, and his lip curled in derision. “How childish.” He raised his own hands to pluck America’s away. “Shove me again, and you will regret it, _Jones_. So long as I’m here, I have the _right_ to take a drink. The _freedom_ to do as I please. Isn’t that what you’re out here screaming about? Freedom?”

America stared. England stood tall, a picture of composure and grace. America certainly didn’t share that composure. He was breathing hard, fingers twitching into fists at his sides. Then, he stopped. A glance over his shoulder reminded him of his men. He straightened up, and his eyes darkened.

“Enjoy your drink,” America mumbled. He turned his back on the Brit. “It’s the last one you’ll have here.”

No one could say he wasn’t merciful.

*

“How the hell can he come here talking about _rights_ and _freedom_ when that’s exactly what he’s trying to withhold from us?”

America’s words rushed over a tongue slick with booze. He paced the interior of the little house he’d been occupying, and his hands flew over his head.

“He doesn’t respect me. He doesn’t take me seriously.” America wobbled on a foot, then whirled back around. His voice dropped. “I shouldn’t have let him into that pub.”

“Ah, _mon coeur_ …” France purred from the sofa. He stretched out bare legs, crossing one over the other beneath a silken robe. “He is only trying to rile you up. Would you really have him get the best of you? It is precisely what he wants.”

America stopped. He met the Frenchman’s eyes, blue on violet. France returned the look. Long fingers moved to tuck longer hair behind his ear. He pinned it with a rose he’d plucked from the garden. His movements were so languid, dripping with nonchalance. America couldn’t even fake that calm. He started pacing again.

“I’m gonna go get him.” America’s shoulders hunched under the weight of his rage. “I’m gonna get him and I’m gonna throw him back across that damn ocean if I have to.”

“I am telling you, _cheri_ , it is a fool’s pursuit.” France sighed, a breathy expulsion of air. He untangled his legs and sat upright. Then, after examining America’s restless routine, he walked over to him.

America’s eyes snapped to France’s. Normally, that gaze alone could pacify him. Now, it only made his head throb harder. “What?”

“ _Mon chou_ , I know you are distraught. Your pain, it kills me, and while I love to see you thinking with your heart, I could not stand to watch such a beautiful part of you make such reckless decisions.”

America breathed slowly through his nose. His body thrummed with caged energy. He heard what France was saying. But he wasn’t _listening_.

“’M not thinking with my heart. He doesn’t get a piece of that anymore.”

America ignored France’s distress as he made his way to the door. He dropped his bottle of rum on the way. He wouldn’t need it, where he was going.

*

An empty stool sat between them. America downed his drink. Asked for another. He’d done that a few times, as he recalled. Yet, he still had a better grip on himself than the Brit slouching beside him. England didn’t look up from his glass once. The sleeve of his uniform was stained with ale. His shirt was unbuttoned. He drew his finger in sloppy circles along the rim of his cup, and America watched, despite the fluid buzz in his mind.

Another drink appeared at his elbow. He threw that one back too. His voice barely slurred when he said, “Another.”

The bartender gave him a sympathetic look but obeyed. America slammed the next glass onto the counter. Golden liquid sloshed over the side. He turned to the motionless drunk on his left.

“You finally drunk enough to admit how stupid and wrong you are, or should I order the bottle?”

England hummed in the back of his throat. “You came back to share a bottle with me? S’pose you must miss me. Sweet of you, Al.”

America snorted his disgust. He hissed as that next drink slid down his throat. His glass clinked hollow on the countertop. “Honestly kinda flattered you decided to let your guard down here and show all my people how pathetic you are.”

“Pathetic?” England made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. America didn’t miss the way he swayed in his seat. “Oh, tha’s funny y’know.”

America scoffed, grimacing while he shook his head. He found plenty of things funny. This sorry display wasn’t one. He barked a sudden laugh anyway. “Yeah. Funny.”

He slid the empty glass to the bartender and rounded his sights on the rest of the bargoers behind him. Some of them looked merry, some of them distressed. Among them all, America knew, there was a hint of unease. Curiosity regarding what might happen, and apprehension about finding out.

The bartender handed him another glass and America thanked him. He slid it across the counter with a flick of the wrist. “Drink this, and I bet I’ll be carrying your ass out of here. Shoot, I could end the war right now. Just keep drowning you in this stuff.”

He fought to keep his eyes steady. His constitution was high but slamming one drink after the other made him feel…swimmy. Just a little bit. He propped his elbow on the bar.

England’s eyes flickered away from his own cup. Something pale curled over his lips. Not quite a smile. He accepted the drink America had offered.

And he dumped it over America’s clothes.

America’s jaw dropped. A stringent stench flavored the air. He raised his arms, watching as liquid dripped off of him.

“Perhaps that’ll help with the smell. You yanks reek something awful.” England’s voice grated on the last nerve he didn’t know he still had. His eyes locked on England’s own. “But oh? You’ll carry me outta here, hm? How considerate. Oh poppet, come, give me a kiss.”

England careened forward. America twisted out of the way. He was on his feet now, fists balled at his sides. Heat flared behind his skin, colored it red with rage. England noticed.

“Oh. You gonna hit me now?” He clicked his tongue, disapproving. “No sense crying over spilled drink, doll.”

Then, England tried to turn away from him. He tried to _turn his back on him_ , like that was the end of it. Like he hadn’t just insulted America wildly, _on his own land._

America lunged. All of his weight went behind the maneuver, toppling barstool and all. England shouted, thrashed blindly before he knew where America was coming from.

“Barbarian!” England yelled. A blow glanced off the side of America’s temple. He threw one back. His knuckles connected with something soft and England grunted. “Beast!”

They tumbled over each other on the tiled floor. They wrestled viciously, fists flying, pulling, shoving, nails raking hard over skin. America tried to stagger to his feet. England wrenched him back down. Hands closed around his throat and he ripped them away, struck England’s chin with a fist.

“You drunk fucking bastard!” America’s voice cracked. He ignored it, landing a few more blows to England’s arms where they shielded him. “You possessive, suffocating control freak! I hate you. I _hate_ you. I can’t wait ‘til the sea is between us and I never have to see you again. Fuck you. _Fuck_ you.”

A hand caught his shoulder. At first, he thought it was England’s. But it couldn’t be. America had one of England’s hands pinned at his side, and the other was snatching up America’s hair. He yanked away the stranger’s grip, but it returned, accompanied by a concerned voice. Get up. Someone wanted him to get up. Stop the fighting. Please.

America drove his fist into England’s cheek one last time. England returned the favor: A blow to the kidney. America gasped, stumbled to his feet. He pushed away whoever was trying to separate them. There were arms around England too, trying to drag him upright, and England twisted away. There was a wild gleam in his eyes when he stood. He wiped blood away with a handkerchief before crumpling it back into his pocket.

“Ohhh, Alfred.” England’s coo was a knife up America’s spine. America scowled, despite the sharp intake of breath. “You’ll see me every bloody _day_. Every time you look in the mirror, when your country is falling apart, you’ll see my smiling face telling you, ‘I told you so.’”

America bit his lip. Drew blood. He just stared, hardly aware of how badly he was shaking. The trembling started in his fingertips, crept into his palms, scuttled into his core. His eyes followed England while the man fixed his jacket and dropped money on the bar as he walked past.

America swallowed his low sound of despair until the doors had shut. And then, all eyes were on him, on his flushed face made redder by blood. He mopped some of it up with a sleeve. Then, when he was confident England had made it a good distance away, he pushed out into the night.

*

France was fretting, not that America could understand it. French curses and clucks filled his ears while he straddled his kitchen chair.

“Pah, you did not take my advice and now look who is the pitiful one.” France’s voice was laced with compassion throughout. America wouldn’t meet his eyes, even when France’s fingers carded tenderly through his hair. France sighed. “ _Mon petit lapin_ … You are so scrappy. It is admirable. But also? A constant pain in my chest.”

France’s thumb brushed over the split in America’s bottom lip. America hitched a breath and turned away from the touch. France clicked his tongue again.

“America, _chéri_ , you are bleeding all over the place. Let me patch you up—To save the furniture if nothing else.”

America said nothing. His eyes fixed on a tile near the stove. _Puke green_. It reminded him of England’s eyes. _Vomit_. Once, they’d been precious as emeralds to him. The thought made him wince.

When a damp cloth touched America’s cheek, he nearly toppled his chair. He all but _shoved_ away those prying hands, trying to care for him, coddle him.

“Don’t.” America said. He didn’t remember standing but, now, he was looking down at France’s head. “England used to—”

He stopped. His eyes finally flicked from the tile on the floor to France’s own gaze. _Purple_ , he thought. _Purple, not green._ He fixed the man with a hard glare. But France’s little frown offered so much _sympathy_. He didn’t want it.

He didn’t want it.

His glare faltered. He could feel his lip tremble. And _damn him_ , because France noticed, and his eyes grew wide.

“Oh, _amour_ …”

America fled. He’d listened to his fight instinct once tonight. Now, he took flight. Away from France and his gentle touch. Away from England and his smothering control. Away, to a room where everything was dim, and the only one around to hear his shuddering breaths was the darkness herself.

America locked the door.


End file.
